(miniflash story)

The first rays of the sun touched the forest like careful fingers unwrapping a gift. Mist rose from the meadows in soft spirals, hiding and revealing the golden crowns of trees that whispered the secrets of October.

In the small village at the foot of the mountain, chimneys began to smoke, spreading the scent of дрова and breakfast — something with eggs, bread, and freshly brewed coffee. The silence was not empty; it was full of the rustling of leaves, distant dog barks, and the quiet clatter of someone chopping wood. A shepherd walked slowly uphill, his boots crunching through frost-kissed grass. His sheep followed lazily, as if reluctant to disturb the peace.

Somewhere behind the ridge, the echo of a train passing through the valley reminded the forest that the world was waking up. Time felt thick, like honey in a cold spoon — slow, sweet, and golden. The mountain held its breath just for a moment longer, and then, with a breeze, released the day. The Carpathians didn’t rush. They never did.